The House
by Spencer5460
Summary: Maybe that's all this place needed, too. A little love. But after pouring everything I had into the man sentenced to that hospital bed, it would be a miracle if I had any left to give. I looked around the dilapidated interior and scoffed. I wouldn't even know where to begin. Since when had I become the patron saint of lost causes?


**The House**

When Starsky first mentioned his half-cocked investment idea I scoffed like I usually did at any idea that wasn't mine originally, but after some thinking, I decided, "why not?" Like most people, I once dreamed of owning a home of my own, even if it _was_ in some far off future. A porch made for lazy Sundays, flowers soaking up the sun in a window box. And if not kids, a big, friendly dog playing in the yard would complete the pleasant picture. I never mentioned my vision to Starsky at the time. I just wrote out the check. But he didn't ask either. I had a feeling he already knew.

When he showed me the broken down and abandoned house he'd bought with the money we pooled I'd really given Starsky the business. It wasn't what I had pictured at all. But for the asking price, I don't know what I'd been expecting. Most of the windows were cracked and litter decorated the small, weed-infested yard. The structure did have a porch but its floor bowed slovenly and the steps had rotted out. The front door hung with disinterest on its hinges. And that was just the outside.

Looking back, my childish outburst must have hurt a lot more than Starsky's ears. His half of the cost was all he had. Mine was practically loose change, if the truth were known.

We let the house languish over the months as other things took precedence. Doomed love affairs and long, exhausting hours on the job chipped away at us. My disillusionment with our situation grew like weeds choking out a garden.

My life hadn't turned out the way I had expected. I never fit in with the country-club crowd, but I wasn't exactly brought up working class. The streets seemed to suit me, but the daily grind of junkies and hookers, pimps and pushers, not to mention the jail's revolving door, wore me down. I wondered where I belonged. The only place that felt right was with Starsky. Unorthodox, but true.

Perhaps disheartening of all were the families we dealt with who were being torn apart by abuse, carelessness, or negligence. I'd go into a house to interview a distraught mother or grieving husband and see the pictures on the mantel or the table set for dinner and think, if I had what they had I'd never let it go. More than a house – a home.

But Starsk and I kept marching on. Ducking and dodging. Jousting with windmills as the sails continued to turn. We threw our badges into the ocean in tandem once and tried to walk away but life's currents held us in place. Kira tried to break us and yet we survived, bruised and bloodied, but still holding our own.

Then Starsky got shot. Not just a bullet glancing off an arm or leg, but three that tore through his chest, pulverizing a kidney, mutilating a lung, a terrifying fraction of an inch from his heart. We'd face death before, but we were younger and stronger then. Not so beaten down.

I almost lost him. And I knew if that happened, I'd lose myself as well.

In the past, there was always something to distract us from what might happen if we were to lose the battle. So instead of focusing on failure, we went after the bad guy, fought the good fight. And we'd always come up winners.

This time there was nothing I could do but gaze at him in that hospital bed, so pale and still, and try to tune out the beeps in the background that measured out his heart like a macabre metronome. I didn't want to think how I was memorizing his face for the possibility that this was a war we might _not_ win _._ Even Superman wasn't indestructible when faced with kriptonite.

For a few days I was able to harness my helpless rage enough to bring down the man who had done this to him – had done this to _us_ – but that wasn't going to bring Starsky back. Only a miracle could do that.

I hadn't prayed in years, but I thought if anyone deserved intercession with a higher being it was Starsky. I stopped in at the hospital's little chapel but it was too impersonal a place to bare my soul. Besides, I didn't feel a connection to the faceless, robed statue at the side of the altar or the symbols embedded in the colors of the paint-by-numbers glass. I drove home but it was too empty there without Starsky. To go to his place was unthinkable.

So I went by the little, hard scrabble house that both our names were still on, although we hadn't been by it in over a year. After my tantrum, Starsky hadn't bothered to mention it again. I figured we'd try to sell it and get our money back when we found the time and energy. The street was as run down as I remembered but I then noticed a couple of the bungalows had been cleaned up.

It was amazing what fresh paint and a little landscaping could do. They practically looked homey. A testament to the belief that just because the world goes to hell around you doesn't mean you can't save your own little corner if you hold tight both hands. That's what Starsky and I had tried to do. Except over time my palms had grown sweaty and it seemed that everything I'd been clinging to was slipping away.

I sat on what remained of the front steps for a few moments trying to collect my fragmented thoughts. For a few days I'd been numb, focused only on destroying the man who had come so close to destroying us. To think of anything else was unbearable.

But now that Gunther had been arrested, his well-ordered syndicate toppled like dominoes, and Starsky had come out of his coma, giving the doctors cautious hope, I felt myself beginning to thaw. Emotions began to break free like chunks of ice on a March lake, causing me to surface and gulp, however painfully, for much needed air.

I whispered my petition and ended with an awkward "Amen," not that I ever knew exactly what it meant. Then I got up and went inside the house to take a look around. Since I was already there I figured, 'what the hell?' The living room was bigger than I expected but the kitchen was in shambles. The appliances were missing and the cabinets, though still solid, needed re-facing. There were two bedrooms with a Jack-and-Jill bathroom in between. The lot was small but there was still room to add a small addition out back.

It would take a huge amount of work to get it ready to be put back on the market, let alone make it livable. But there was something about the place that wouldn't let me go. As if Starsky's enthusiasm had taken up residence like a ghost, refusing to leave until some other mission was complete. Besides, I had plenty of nervous energy to spare.

I remembered how Starsky made me watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas" one year, trying to get me in the Christmas spirit. What stuck with me was the scrawny pine the hapless boy had picked out. His friends had laughed at it but Linus, Charlie's ever faithful friend, had taken the pathetic tree and made it beautiful.

All it needed was a little love, Linus had said.

Maybe that's all this place needed, too. A little love. But after pouring everything I had into the man sentenced to that hospital bed, it would be a miracle if I had any left to give. I looked around the dilapidated interior and scoffed. I wouldn't even know where to begin. Since when had I become the patron saint of lost causes? I felt a breeze through the open doorway lift my hair. Or maybe that was the patron saint who refused to give up on Starsky and me.

ooOoo

With Starsky in the hospital and my duties curtailed – since I'd made it clear there was no way I was taking on another partner – I found myself launched into the spirit of home ownership. I loaded up on remodeling manuals from the library and added them to my stack of "Handyman" magazines I'd only riffled through before. Now they became my Bibles.

After carrying a few into the john and leaving several more at my desk, people started to take notice. I finally let it out that I was fixing up the house we'd bought – to sell, of course. It was a relief to have something to talk about other than Starsky. Not that he wasn't always foremost in my mind, but most days there wasn't much news to report and the doctors hesitated to discuss any long range prognosis. Talking about him without him being at my shoulder felt all wrong.

I focused my attention on my unlikely remodeling project each evening after visiting with Starsky at the hospital. The cuts, scrapes and sore thumbs that came along with the unfamiliar work took my mind away from deeper pain if only for a little while. As in tune as we'd always been, I wasn't surprised that Starsky and my progress began to mirror each other, one step forward and two steps back.

Soon others caught fixer-up fever. Minnie mentioned her brother was an electrician who was in between jobs. Huggy had a friend of a friend who owed him a favor and a battered pickup bearing sheet rock and two by fours appeared a few days later. Simmons shared a few plumbing tips he had picked up when he'd worked for his dad in high school.

Despite the frustration, I gradually began to recognize small miracles. Starsky's first solid food, my first wired in light fixture, his first steps, my first sink hook-up. And whenever I felt like throwing down my hammer, I thought of what Starsky was going through and, well, I picked it back up again.

One Sunday afternoon as I stirred a can of satin interior paint, the color and texture as creamy as cake batter, Captain Dobey pulled up with his son, Cal, and unloaded a step ladder, drop cloth and paint rollers from the back of their car.

"I thought it was time Cal got used to the finer points of home maintenance." The big man explained gruffly as he nodded toward his son. "He'll be a home-owner himself someday."

No doubt the strapping teenager would rather be playing ball with his buddies that afternoon than painting a broken down house, but he sent me a small smile nevertheless. My chagrin at having my captain get involved in my overwhelming project was cast aside by practicality and gratitude. I'd been running on anxiety and caffeine for weeks, sleeping little and eating even less. My back hurt, my knuckles were skinned raw and spackling clung to my hair.

I never minded being a loner. Before Starsky, I'd grown quite used to it. But Dobey and Cal's comradery made the day's chores sail by almost pleasantly. I'd forgotten how friendly conversation spiced with humor could make time fly. God how I missed Starsky.

Hours later, with the living room and bedrooms wearing new coats of suitably neutral Sahara Sand, the three of us settled on the porch and opened a couple of beers, and a root beer for Cal. It was a good thing I continued to keep them on hand out of habit.

"It's really starting to look like something." Dobey remarked.

I nodded my head in appreciation of his approval, since it tended to be given sparingly. That made it all the more prized.

"It may be small but it's got good bones. Nothing that some spit, polish and a few nails can't handle." He wiped his brow where sweat had a tendency to accumulate whenever he expended the slightest physical exertion. "And the neighborhood's coming around, too. It's not like it used to be. Young families need homes like this to grow into. Something with a little character, not those McMansions you see going up in the suburbs." He harrumphed and made a gesture with his Pabst Blue Ribbon in a vague air-borne direction.

Cal grew unusually interested in the rough texture of the floorboards, running his hand over and over the weathered wood. He was obviously as familiar with Dobey's blustery but harmless pontificating as Starsky and I. But he respected him enough to listen.

"A man needs a place to call his own. Something he's paid for with at least a little blood and sweat, not just money. That's what makes it _his_." Dobey's characteristic gruffness couldn't hide his passion.

"Edith and I grew up in the projects, a place far worse than this. Our dream was to get out. When we got married it all we wanted was a house of our own. Nothing big or showy. That just wasn't _us_. But somewhere we could raise our children and give them a better life. It wasn't about having something fancy, it was about having a _home_."

Harold Dobey had been my captain for over five years, and in that time I'd grown to know him and his family well. He was more than my superior officer, he was my friend. But I'd rarely seen him wear his heart on his sleeve. Being able to compartmentalize emotions in difficult situations was a skill he'd learned well. Maybe it was because of that, or because I had so few memories of my own father offering me patronly advice, that his words sank deep.

"Do you still think you want to sell it?" He asked.

I thought of the hours I'd spent sanding and refinishing the cabinetry, scrubbing the floors, imagining what the yard would look like once the trash was picked up and grass replanted. Maybe a lilac bush or two.

"I don't know." A home also meant putting down roots, something I thought I might never be able to do, since I didn't feel I'd been given any.

But I could wait awhile. When -not _if_ \- Starsky was released from the rehab center he'd been moved to, he'd need a place to recuperate. Somewhere without too many steps and close to the hospital.

There was plenty of room here for the both of us here. A major plus since I wasn't about to let him out of my sight. Not for a long time, anyway. Joni Mitchell sang you don't know what you've got till it's gone, but I'd come too goddam close for comfort.

The way Dobey said, "Just don't be in too much of a hurry" as he stood and brushed off his baggy work pants made me think that perhaps he'd read my mind. Maybe he'd been around Starsky and I too long, or maybe he just knew me better than I knew him.

What had it taken for him to break away from the inner city gangs and become a black cop in a white man's world?

"Come on, Cal. Your mother will be waiting for us." He tapped his son on the ankle to get his attention.

As I watched them get in the car and drive off, l hoped Cal would overlook the lost afternoon and appreciate the gift he'd been given.

I guess I'd been given a few gifts, too.

ooOoo

"Damn!" Starsky exclaimed. "You did all this yourself?" It was his first trip outside the medical facility and the house was my surprise stop on a whirlwind tour of the outside world. I couldn't hold the secret any longer. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been impossible to hide something like this from him, but he'd had problems of his own to deal with. Like coming back from the dead.

"I did have a little help here and there," I admitted.

Starsky walked up the new front stairs gingerly, leaning heavily on my arm. I remembered the first time he had brought me here and how I'd fallen through the rotted steps. They'd been replaced since then and the floor of the now-gleaming white porch had been reinforced as well.

He stopped and grabbed onto to me as I opened the secure but attractive door that protected the entrance. I wasn't sure if it was from a wave of momentary weakness or simply surprise.

"Christ." he murmured as I flipped the wall switch. He took a few steps inside and looked around slowly.

I felt unexpected butterflies spring to life in my stomach. "Is that all you can say?"

I'd rarely known my partner to be speechless and for a second I was afraid he didn't like it. That all my hard but amateurish work had been for nothing and I'd disappointed someone I loved yet again by less than desired results.

"I know it's not the greatest, the ceiling fan still wobbles a little, there's some spots I missed in the k. .k . . kitchen and there's a crack . . ."

"It's perfect, Hutch. Just perfect." He turned to me with a look on his face I hadn't seen in months. His own special brand of joy I'd always wished I could bottle. Hand out on the streets so the kids wouldn't turn to drugs.

"I'm proud of you." He drew his hand through my hair to let his touch emphasize his words.

To say that Starsky and I had been through a lot together is an understatement. I knew he trusted me, believed in me – even at times when no one else did. He forgave me more than I deserved. I think I knew in my bones he was proud of me, too. But to hear him say the words aloud felt like he'd applied salve to a long-festering wound. Taking away an endless sting and helping it to heal.

Healing. I guess we both needed a lot more of it.

He brought his camera on our next visit and took pictures of The House to send to his mom. The way only he can, he talked me into sending a few to my parents as well. Sometime later Mrs. Starsky sent us a plaque she had made that read "Home Sweet Home." We hung it near the front door above the mezuzah and a small, wood-carved crest of St. Jude.

I shouldn't have let my homeowner's euphoria take over my good sense when it came to my own parents, however. A response from my father, written on his company stationery, simply said 'Is this some kind of joke?' I curled it tightly in my hand then threw it in the trash.

ooOoo

"Great news!" Starsky swung his legs over the bed and greeted me when I walked in his room after my shift one evening.

"Me, too," I countered. I felt the envelope practically vibrate in my hand like it had a life of its own. I fought the impulse to call all day so that I could make the announcement in person.

"The doc just left. He says I'm ready to go home!" He'd hardly listened to what I had said but with news like his, I didn't blame him. "Told me as long as I had a reasonable place to stay, someone to watch out for me for a while, I'm a free man! Still no driving for a least a month, though."

Even that restriction couldn't dampen his mood. Merle has assured us his magic with body work had restored the Torino to its original 'super fine' condition. I'd dropped off Starsky to look at it once – he said he'd needed the closure – but I begged off. There were nights when I still heard the explosion of the high-powered assault weapon in my sleep and I'd wake up with my throat tight as if I'd been screaming.

My partner's ability to face his own nightmares humbled me.

I grabbed him by the shoulders but it took no small amount of restraint to keep me from swinging him around the room. "That's great!" I exclaimed. Maybe the prayers I had launched from that rundown porch really _had_ been heard by Someone.

Go home. Starsky could go _home_.

"So what's _your_ news?" Starsky asked me, finally noticing the letter I held.

"Oh, yeah. I got this notice from the City that The House passed inspection and it's been cleared for occupancy." I pulled the letter from the envelope and handed it to him.

"That's terrific, Hutch," Starsky said. He gave the paper the once over before he folded it and put in back in the envelope.

"So, it's ready to go on the market, huh?" He looked up at me with a question in his eyes.

"Yep," I answered.

"We can get our money back and then some," I added quietly as I took the envelope and stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans.

"Sure, if that's what you want," he agreed. "But I've been thinking, seeing as how my place has all those stairs and The House only has a couple . . . plus it's on the bus line and pretty convenient to the doctor's office . . . .do you mind if I stay there for a little while? 'TiI I get my sea legs under me, anyway."

"Geez, Starsk. It's not like you have to ask. It _is_ half yours." Until he said the words I hadn't realized how much I'd been thinking – hoping - the same thing. I guess I just hadn't wanted to admit how much The House had come to mean to me. Hutchinson stubborn pride was a powerful poison.

"Well, I know you want your money back and all. You never wanted that house in the first place. I know what pain in your ass it's been." He took me hand and turned it over, running his thumb over new callouses and a barely healed cut on my palm.

I closed my eyes, relishing the sensation, then cleared my throat.

"No more of a pain in my ass than you are, Gordo."

"Doc said it'd be best if I had someone to stay with me for a while."

I pulled back my hand and opened my eyes to his cool blue. "Starsky, are you asking me to live with you?"

He turned to the little closet where he kept his street clothes. "Well, ya did turn me down the first time," he reminded me with a huff. "And I'm not one to ask something like that twice."

I was such a fool before.

"I guess I could stay a little while anyway." I said as I watched him take off his johnny gown and pull on a plaid button-down, his scars ragged and angry and beautiful across his chest.

ooOoo

"Hey, Hutch."

I winced as the screen door slammed. The stray cat that had been lapping at the milk Starsky had set out jumped and darted off the porch.

"Ma said she'll be here on Friday. I can pick her up at the airport after work."

I leaned back on my heels and looked up at him from flower bed I'd been tending, pulling the weeds I was determined not to let overtake the tentative new buds.

"She wants to you make her one of your famous roast beef dinners and then we can take a walk over to the park. I know she'll love that." His happiness was infectious.

"She'll be happy enough just to see how well you're doing," I reminded him.

"Yeah, but I've been telling her how you got all the neighbors together to clean it up. It really looks good you know. It's great to see all the kids playing there now."

It's true not only The House but the neighborhood had gone through a slow transformation over the months. Whether it was the news of two badass cops moving in or people just decided it was worth saving that made the difference, I can't say for sure. But hasn't been such a bad place to live. There's a little market within walking distance and the park is just around the corner. Sometimes Starsk and I even shoot some hoops there with neighborhood kids.

It's nothing fancy, then again, it doesn't have to be. It's home and it's all ours. A place where we can lay down our swords and shields at the end of the day. Where we can be ourselves, share dreams, make memories. So I guess we're staying a while.

If that's what it means to put down roots, Starsky and mine go deep.

 **FIN**

 _I'll light the fire, you place the flowers in the vase that you bought today._

 _Staring at the fire for hours and hours while I listen to you_

 _Play your love songs all night long for me, only for me._

 _Come to me now and rest your head for just five minutes, everything is good._

 _Such a cozy room,_

 _The windows are illuminated by the evening sunshine through them,_

 _Fiery gems for you, only for you._

"Our House" by Crosby Stills and Nash


End file.
